


Breakfast

by supersoakerx



Series: Breakfast [1]
Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Nipple Play, maple syrup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22943218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supersoakerx/pseuds/supersoakerx
Summary: Paterson's hungry for a specific part of your body.
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You, Paterson x You, paterson x reader
Series: Breakfast [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724026
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31





	Breakfast

Paterson’s not in bed when you wake up, but he’s tucked all the blankets up around you like a little cocoon, so you stay warm and cozy.

A scent wafts through the air… sweet, and buttery, and you recognise it almost instantly… _pancakes!_

Paterson loves making pancakes on Sundays. He’ll let you sleep in and wake you up with the smell and the sizzle of his cooking, enticing you into the kitchen, or if you slept in, he’d bring in two plates of fresh, hot pancakes with your favourite toppings and you’d eat breakfast in bed together. But today, he wanted to do something extra special. Something he could not stop thinking about. He hopes you’ll let him.

You stretch and kick off the covers, and roll out of bed, slipping on your slippers to keep your feet warm. The air was a little chilly outside of your warm bed, and the floor was cold. You shivered. You only had on your thin pj bottoms and shirt—Paterson keeps you toasty warm during the night—and you’re pretty sure your nipples are showing through the thin material. You meander your way into the kitchen, following the mouth-watering smell of Paterson’s pancakes, your limbs still a little stiff from sleep.

You lean on the archway into the kitchen, and take a good look up and down at your husband. Where you’re standing, you see him in profile, while he faces the stove and prepares your breakfast. He’s in his usual white t-shirt, crumpled from sleep, and his usual plaid boxers. He hasn’t put his watch on this morning, which is not unusual for a weekend day, and usually means he wants to relax and unwind and rest and have a purely lazy Sunday. His hair is a little messy from sleep, and a piece has fallen into his face as he shifts butter around the pan and lifts and flips a pancake. He sips from a cup of coffee in his other hand when the pancake lands, raw side down. The sun shines through the window and lights him up from behind, like a halo around his head.

“Good morning, handsome,” you smile and speak softly to him.

Paterson turns his head in the direction of your voice and smiles when he sees you. You almost don’t catch it but he definitely chances a quick glance up and down your body. He sets his coffee down and holds his arm out to you, and says, low and deep and slow, “Good morning, honey. You look beautiful, (Y/N).”

You take the invitation and saunter over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist as he pulls you close. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and inhales deeply, his chest expanding as his lungs fill with the smell of your hair.

“Pancakes smell good, baby,” you mumble into his side, and press yourself up against him. He’s so solid.

He chuckles, “not as good as you, but yeah they’ll do.”

You look up at him to find him already looking down at you, a small little smile tugging at his lips and his eyes flooded with tenderness.

Your gaze flicks down to his full, soft lips and you reach up on your tip toes you place a kiss there, eyes closing. Paterson’s eyes fall closed too, and he grips you to him tighter, squeezing you closer. _No, no_ , he thinks, _not yet._

He pulls away from you, and you gaze up into his face. You’re trying to tell him with your eyes, to come back to bed, let’s eat later, come and-

“My wife doesn’t want to eat the breakfast I slaved over, hm?” His eyes glint with humour, with love.

You roll your eyes at him. You both know that cooking pancakes is one of the easiest things in the world for Pat.

Unbidden, your stomach grumbled, and he raised his eyebrows and gave you a face that said, ‘see?.’

“Fine,” you sigh, disappointed but not surprised that your body betrayed you. You needed to eat. You were hungry. “I’ll get the juice.” You release your hold on him and turn to head to the fridge, but your eyes catch on the dining table, already set up with glasses, juice, the coffee pot, plates, knives and forks, and all of your and Paterson’s favourite toppings. There’s a small vase with a pretty pink flower in it. There’s also a little bowl of peaches. Of course there is.

“Already done, sweetheart.” Paterson says, flipping over another pancake that’s gone a little long on one side. He’ll eat that one, and give you a better one.

You turn back and stare at him, and he looks over his shoulder at you and winks. Cheeky. “Siddown, honey,” he says, turning back to the stove, “these are almost ready.”

You take a seat and pour yourself some juice, and you take the moment to observe your husband, trying to commit him to memory.

His back is to you, while he finishes up cooking. His shoulders ripple under his shirt, and his hips and backside wiggle a little as he shifts the pan back and forth over the heat. Then, he puts all his weight on one side and leans his hand on his hip, waiting for the last pancake to finish cooking. He hums something to himself, you can’t pick the tune. He moves around some more and then he’s turning to face you, pancake plate in one hand, whipping a handtowel up over his shoulder with the other. “Let’s eat,” he says, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows in anticipation as he sets down the steaming tower of pancakes he made. He takes his seat and smiles at you, “pass me your plate, honey.”

******

As you eat, you think you notice Paterson stealing glances down at your chest. You’ll be looking down and cutting up a piece of pancake to eat, then look back up at him to see him flick his eyes immediately back to yours, as if he wasn’t staring, he wasn’t daydreaming, he was looking at your face and listening to you intently the _whole_ time.

At one point, he ogles you so overtly that you cock your eyebrow and challenge him with a, “my eyes are up here, Pat.”

His eyes go wide and his cheeks flush. He coughs to clear his throat, “sorry, honey, I know, sorry-I just…” he trails off. He shifts in his seat.

You give him a moment, and then prompt him gently when he doesn’t say anything. “What is it you want to say, baby?”

“Oh nothing nothing I…” he said that _way_ too fast, he knows. He clenches his jaw. “I’m… working through something.” He shifts again, he has to, he’s been slowly getting hard since you bit into a peach and some juice ran down your chin, and you lifted up the bottom of your shirt to dab it away, and he got the tiniest flash of pink, so he snuck a little peek at your pert nipples, still stiff from the slight chill in the room. “Mmaybe later?” He mumbles, and with his head tilted just down a little he looks up at you with puppy dog eyes, and swallows.

“Ok, Pat. That’s ok, baby, later.”

******

Later? Bullshit. It’s not fair to tease him, you think. It’s cruel. But also, it’s fun.

When you both finish eating you stretch up, raising your arms above your head. You know your nipples are showing and the stretch of your back just emphasises them. Your shirt rides up to just under the swell of your breast and Paterson, poor Paterson, you’ve timed it perfectly, just when he takes a sip of juice he chokes on it, coughing.

You put your arms back down, “you alright, Pat?”

“Mmhm!” he assures, and takes another swig to calm everything down.

“Oh, good,” you get up from your seat and make your way over to him. You stand next to him and put your hands on his shoulders, “I was worried, baby.” You slide your hands over his shoulders, towards his neck, and pull him into a cuddle. At this height, his face is level with your chest. His hands come up to your back, fingers splaying out, and he pulls you even closer to him, getting his face right up in your chest. You feel him release a big puff of hot air from his open mouth as he snuggles in.

Yep. Something’s definitely clicking into place for you.

You kiss the top of his head and pull away, and Paterson almost whimpers, leaning forward to follow your movement and nestle himself in again before stopping himself, sitting back in his chair. He quickly clasps his hands over his lap to hide his growing, persistent need.

“Thanks for breakfast, baby. I’ll clean up.” You run your thumb over his cheek and press a kiss to his forehead. You tilt your back just a little more than you needed to as you lean back up, and your chest _almost_ presses into his face before you’re moving away, grabbing the plates.

“O-ok, honey, th-thanks.” He’s stuttering now. _Great_. How would he ever be able to do what he was planning, now? He couldn’t even _talk_ about it, and you were _right_ there.

**

As you wash up, you make sure to accidentally drop stuff, you’re clumsy on purpose, to splash water over your shirt and get it to stick to you.

Paterson tries, he really tries not to gawp and stare, tries so hard to keep his eyes on the book he grabbed to read while you tidied up. Sitting at the table, he wonders when he’ll get another chance to try this with you, talk about this with you, and he can hear all the noise you’re making and the water sloshing and when he looks up he’s-completely-fucked.

You’re turned to face him, hand on your hip. You puff a breath up to blow hair out of your face, and it fails. “Gosh, that got messier than I planned,” you hear yourself say, a complete lie. Your shirt is covered in wet patches, some big and some small, and one right over one of your pert nipples. Both are visible through your thin pj shirt, and Paterson swallows thickly. “I mean, look at me, honey!” you gesture to yourself, as if to say, ‘geez, can you _believe_ this!?’

Paterson forgets to breathe.

And look, it’s not like he’s never seen your breasts. You’re married for goodness’ sake! But images flash in his mind, all the times he’s snuck a glance at your chest recently: when you’re getting ready for work, or getting ready for sleep, or getting in or out of the shower, or when you’re cold. That last one might be his favourite, shameful as it is for him to admit to himself.

And also, it’s not like he’s never played with your breasts before. You both love it for foreplay. But you’ve never let him just lick at them, and lap at them, and lave them with attention and praise and worship. And lately, he’s become obsessed the idea. Badly, so badly, he wants to press his lips up to your nipples and feel them harden into little buds against his lips, circle his tongue over them and flick his tongue over them and lick long wet stripes with his tongue over them and _suck_ on them, really really suck on them, suck on your nipples with his big pink lips until you’re squirming and crying and begging him to stop from the sensitivity. Because you, you’ve unlocked something in him, in that way you do, and he’s a complete goner.

Paterson grunts, coming out of his reverie.

“Where’d you go, baby? Seems like I lost you for a second there.” You pose to him, gently.

“No, I—yeah.” He puts his book down and shimmies his chair back, away from the table. He spreads his legs wide, making a space for you, and holds a hand out to you. “Come here?” He looks at you with that face, with his eyebrows pulling up and in and a tiny little pout gracing his lips. God, you were a sucker for that face.

You walk over to him and stand between his legs, your forearms resting on his shoulders and your fingers reaching up and carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. With both hands you run your nails along his scalp there, massaging him, and his eyes flutter closed. He loves when you do that.

But his silence is concerning you. Maybe you took the teasing too far? You try to say something, but you feel his hands at your back and he pulls you to him. He scoots forward on his chair to make your belly flush with his chest, and your breasts are at his eye level. He nuzzles his face in to your sternum, and hums, seemingly not caring about the dishwater all over you. He feels totally surrounded by you, your body against his and your chest in his face and your hands in his hair, holding him.

“Oh, Pat, I’m all wet, honey!” you complain, and immediately he stills, stops nuzzling his face into your clothed chest. He glances up at you, a spark of glee in his eyes at your unintended pun, but his little smile is covered by the bunched up mess he’s made of your shirt. You make a face, a face that says ‘really?’ to his juvenile humour, but then. Then, he starts again, pressing kisses into your shirt this time, and you feel the warmth of his lips through the material, but you miss what he mumbles into your shirt. Were you hearing things? Did he just say, _“you will be?”_

He kisses his way over to where your shirt is completely soaked through over your breast. He nuzzles into the flesh of your breast with his nose, his mouth, and plants little kisses to your skin through your shirt. His fingers splay out over your back, one hand at your lower back and the other up between your shoulders. You feel totally supported by him. With one hand you run your fingers through his hair.

Then, you feel him lick your nipple. It’s quick and sudden and takes you completely by surprise, and you gasp at the jolt of pleasure you feel: his tongue feels hot against the cold wetness of your shirt.

Your little gasp sends a pulse of pleasure straight through Paterson’s cock, and you feel him growing in his boxers, beside your thigh.

He trails kisses over to your other breast now, and begins kissing the swell of your flesh through your shirt again. He’s so gentle, and light, it feels like you’re slipping into a dream, and you sigh, delighting in his attention, his care.

He looks up at you, mouth poised over the little bump where your stiff nipple pokes through your shirt. He licks his lips and his breath fans over your nipple when he says, “I want to get this one wet, too.”

Your breath catches, imagining how much saliva he’d have to heap on you to soak through your shirt. “Yeah, baby? You wanna do that for me?”

He nods, his eyes growing darker by the second.

Paterson has something he wants to say to you, he’s been dying to tell you, and you’ve just given him the opening he knew you would. He knew you’d let him tell you. “Honey, I, I want to lick you here. I want to taste you, here. I want to suck you-want to suck your nipples,” his breath hitches and he shudders out the last word.

Warmth pools in your belly. He’s so, excited by this. The hot anticipation is rolling off him in waves. But, this isn’t something new. You’ve definitely done this before, on each other, too. But hey, Pat is externalising his sexual desires in the moment and that is a huge, huge thing for him, always is. So, you trail a hand down his pecs, his stomach, and reach to palm his thick bulge in his boxers but he stops you suddenly when he says, “Nno, no, honey, you-you don’t understand, I want t-.”

You still your hand, unsure of what he wants here, what he needs in this moment.

Paterson slides his hands over your back, brings them around to your front, and cups the sides of your breasts through your shirt. His big hands feel so soft, and warm. And for Paterson, he loves how your tits fit and feel in his palms. Your size and shape are perfect. His tongue licks his bottom lip and he gulps, like he does before he’s about to be vulnerable with you, readying himself. “W-will you let me adore you, honey?” His eyes flick between each of yours and he sees you’re about to answer but he _knows_ you don’t understand yet so he keeps going, pushing all the words out. “Will you let me kiss and lick and suck on your tits,” he sighs the word, “until you cry for me? Until you beg me to stop? Will you let me, (Y/N), will you let me give and give and adore you?” He’s looking up at you, his eyes so big and shiny and then, “please.”

You melt for him. You run your hands through his hair and he groans, deep in the back of his throat. “Yes, Pat,” you say, breathily, “yes, baby, go ahead,” you cradle his face in both your hands now, “I want you to.”

He hums out a moan and latches on to your nipple, licking and sucking through the dry material of your shirt, trying to get it all wet and see-through. The sensation, so sudden and strong makes you moan and throw your head back and clutch his thick shoulders for support. His big hands massage and squeeze the soft flesh of your breasts while he laves your nipple with as much spit as he can muster. The pleasure radiating through you is divine, and you can feel yourself getting wet.

Paterson sucks and licks at you, smearing his own spit around you until he makes a wet patch that covers your areola. Well at least, it feels that way to his tongue. He’s got to lean back to take a look at you and check-

“Fuuuck,” he says so softly, he slips his hands down to grab your waist as he glances between your breasts, and the sight has him panting short little breaths. Your nipples are standing proudly through your shirt, the material over both your areola now see-through, covered in some kind of wetness or other. It exaggerates every little feature for Paterson, and he _loves_ it.

“Good, baby?” you ask, watching his face. Your chest is rising and falling with little breaths too, your pulse ticking up.

He flicks his gaze back up to your eyes, and squeezes your waist. He bunches your shirt, your completely wrecked shirt, in his hands. He wants more, he needs more, and so he asks, “Can I take this off you, honey? I want to see.”

You nod, “sure,” and stretch your arms above your head. Paterson yanks your shirt off, like he’s a kid on Christmas morning, and can’t stop the moan that leaves his mouth.

“Oh, baby,” he croons. He runs a hand down your belly and hooks a finger into the waistband of your pj shorts. “These too? Can I see all of you?”

You bite your lip. For some reason, you’re not sure how he’s going to react to seeing or smelling the arousal you _know_ is there. “Of course, baby,” you reply.

He slides his thumbs into your waistband at your hips, and trails his thumbs around to your backside. He tugs your shorts down the curve of your ass and lets them drop to the floor. When you kick out of them, he can see your folds glistening in the light and catches the faintest scent of your slick on the air.

Paterson sighs, “oh, honey, you like this?” His eyes are wide and his heart thumps in his chest. He’s on the verge of being _ecstatic_ , if you love this as much as he does.

You nod.

Paterson’s pretty sure his heart bursts in his chest. “Will you tell me when you like it? Tell me when it’s good?”

“Yes, baby,” your voice is just above a whisper.

His hands come up to cup your breasts again, and he trails the tips of his fingers in circles around the whole of your breast, tracing the swell and curve of your flesh. “Let me hear your pretty sounds, honey,” he murmurs. His gaze travels down your lips, neck, chest, to your breasts, his fingers rhythmically circling your skin and he sighs, “you’re so pretty, honey, beautiful…”

He trails off, mesmerised, and takes the tips of his index fingers and so lightly, barely touching, traces a soft line down, and then back up, over your stiff nipple. His touch is feather-light and teasing, and he does it over and over again and he feels, just, “so good, baby, s-so good,” you moan softly to him.

He’s entranced by the sight of your hard, tight nipples beneath the pads of his fingers, but your praise registers in the back of his mind. He’s pretty sure his dick just leaked a little onto his boxers.

He cups your breasts again and splays his fingers out over your flesh, giving a gentle squeeze and then massaging his fingertips into you with small circles. He’s positioned his hand so that his thumbs can tease your nipples, and he does. He trails his thumbs up and down, over and back, repeating the motions that his fingertips did before, but with a little more pressure. The combined sensations has pleasure rolling through all your muscles.

“So pretty, honey,” he repeats. He can’t help himself, the sight of your breasts like this, and what you’re letting him do to them, is making him stupid. He doesn’t want to lose contact with your warm and supple flesh, so he lifts just his thumbs away from your skin, leans in and licks them, gets them nice and wet, and then circles them around your areola, getting ever and ever closer to your little buds. When his hot, wet thumbs rub circles into and over and on your nipples, you groan.

“MmmmPaaat! Baby, shit.” He was being so slow and gentle with you, almost soothing, and your pulse throbbed in your core. The sensation of every touch he gave to you was magnified, and you squirmed, panting.

Paterson doesn’t want you getting too sensitive too soon, so he moves his hands away from your breasts and grips your sides, fingers splaying out over your ribs.

He leans in and presses light kisses to the flesh of your breasts. His lips are soft and smooth as he nestles his mouth to your skin. He covers every millimetre of each of your breasts with gentle kisses, and you run your fingers through his hair, grazing along his scalp. “That’s it, baby,” you coo to him, “so good, Paterson, you’re so good to me.”

“Mmmm,” he hums as he kisses and caresses your breasts with his lips, “little peach is so soft, tastes so good.”

Your insides flutter at his words, the vibrations on your skin and his hot breath. You arch your back, pushing your chest into his face.

A low and deep sound comes from the back of his throat, like a growl. He cups one of your breasts in both his warm hands, gentle, and licks long, slow swipes up your nipple, holding your breast in place, and you moan for him.

The pressure at the apex of your thighs is becoming too much to bear. You needed some stimulation between your legs. “B-baby, Pat,” you gently try to break him from the lavish attention he was paying to your nipple, and he locks eyes with you, lips all pink and shiny. “My, I,” you stumble on your words. Why couldn’t you tell him, this wasn’t like you. “Baby I need you to feel you, I need you to touch me, _there_.” Vague?

Paterson’s eyes flit between your own. Yesss, he thinks, he was unravelling you, making you crumble with every swipe of his tongue. This was perfect, you were perfect.

But he wasn’t ready to give in to you completely. Like some kind of religious devotee, he felt like he was only halfway through his prayer to you, his worship of you, and he couldn’t stop now.

He formed a plan. He settled himself back in his chair and spread his legs a little wider, planted his feet firmly on the ground, flexed his thighs. He rubbed his palms up and down the tops of his thighs and then patted them, saying, “come up here, honey, come sit on my lap.”

You clamber up onto him, and he holds your waist to steady you, as you straddle him while he sits in the dining chair. But your knee lands on him while you’re adjusting, and he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, “ah, shit!” and quickly dips his hand into his boxers and adjusts his length, moving it from his thigh so it rests up against his belly.

“I’m sorry!!” you cry out, having just put your whole body weight onto his dick, “I’m so sorry, Pat!” your eyes are wide with horror.

He gives you a half smile, and his hands slink around your back and grab fistfuls of your ass, squeezing. “It’s ok, honey, you’re good,” and he seizes you, pulling your body onto him so fast and forceful that you fall onto his chest, clutching his shoulders. Gripping your ass cheeks, he rocks your hips for you, and with a delighted moan, you throw your head back, realising he’s positioned himself, and you, so that you can rock against his length and put some delicious pressure against your aching clit. “How’s that, honey?” you can hear the little smile in his voice. Cheeky.

“Oh, thank you, baby, thank you, so good,” you mutter through sighs as you rock yourself against him.

“Mmm,” he groans, seeing and feeling you hump your naked pussy against his clothed cock, feeling your wet heat, “my little peach is sweet and juicy today, huh-hhh,” he groans, getting all caught up in you.

“Mm, always, baby, mmhm,” you sigh back to him. He feels it deep in his belly.

Your body was pressed against his as you humped his length and gripped his shoulders for support, and while Paterson loved every second of it, how you clung to him and writhed all over him, that wasn’t what this was about. “Honey, (Y/N),” he huffs out a moan, “please, baby, give me your tits, please.”

You clutch his shoulders and extend your arms, holding yourself aloft. It changes the angle of your clit rubbing against his cock, and you whine.

“Yes, honey, there you go, that’s it,” he encourages you, and he clasps his hands around your other breast now, and he licks stripes up this nipple like he did your other, making you cry out.

“Yes! Oh, baby yes, good, more, so good baby.” You praise him, rambling, your body singing in pleasure, and his knees feel weak.

Paterson lets you rock and bounce and grind at your own unpredictable pace in his lap, letting you take what you need while you do the same, letting him take what _he_ needs.

He cups a hand around each breast again, massaging delicate circles into your skin with the pads of his fingers. He leans up in to your chest, angles his head to get his mouth over one of your breasts, points his tongue, and flicks the hard tip across your nipple.

“Shit! Uhhgh, yes, Pat,” you moan, and you hear him groan from your chest.

He switches his attention to your other nipple, and does the same, flicking your nub with the hard, wet tip of his tongue. He’s never wished he had two mouths until this morning.

You’re moaning above him, captivated by the feel of him, and with your sounds and the feel of you and how responsive your body is, he’s certain his cock is drooling cum again.

He takes his mouth away from your chest and grips your hips, slowing your pace against him. He gets a good look at you, your half-lidded eyes, sweat beading at your forehead, your cheeks and chest are flushed and your breasts are glossy with his spit.

“Oh, honey, you’re too—you’re beautiful,” he slides his hands up your sides, and thumbs over your nipples again. He’s starting to pant now, “you’re so sexy like this, honey.”

You sigh his name in response, and it turns into a moan when his index fingers join his thumbs and he rolls your nipples between them.

Pleasure jolts through you and you buck your hips into him, “yes! so good, baby, so good, keep going.”

He’s fascinated by you, your body, the sight and feel of your nipples in his fingers. “Christ, honey, your little buds are so swollen now, stiffer than ever, feels like,” and he relishes in the moans he pulls from you in response. He drops his voice low, “can I pull on them, honey?”

You’re too far gone to really register what he’s saying. All you know is your slick is soaking through his boxers and whatever he’s doing to your breasts is making you gush more and more wetness out of yourself. You gasp out, “yes, baby.”

Pat watches your face intently, the expression you get when you’re concentrating on your pleasure. He grips your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers again, and applies pressure slowly, slowly pinching your nipples. When he hears your gasp, he gives a gentle tug, and a long, slow pull, teasing nerves you didn’t know you had.

You’re moaning and sighing for him some more, eyes glazing over from the pleasure radiating out from your chest and your centre.

He’s not sure that you—or himself—can last much longer. But he’s got a couple more things he wants to do to you. “Hold on, honey, can you do that for me?” you let out a wail in response, you’ve been so close for so long, he _has_ to know that. “I know, honey, just—please, hold on for me, ok?” You pull your lips between your teeth to stifle a moan, and slow your hips to a gentle grind, wondering to yourself when they ever sped up again. “Yes, honey, thank you, thank you, little peach, you’re so good for me.” He leans in then, close to your face, right up to ear, and whispers, “It’ll be good, I promise honey, it’ll be good for you, I’ll be good for you, ok sweetheart?”

You nod, and turn your head to face him. You’re breathing into each other’s mouths when you slide one of your hands off his shoulders and up to fist in his hair at the back of his head. He closes his fingers around both your nipples again, “Can I suck on you again, honey?” he says into your mouth, then he moves slightly to puff into your ear, “Please let me suck your sweet tits again, baby, please, they’re beautiful.”

“Yes, Pat, do it,” you groan, hoping that he will maybe, soon, finally let you have the release that he’s built you up to.

He settles back down and brings his mouth to one of your breasts. While he’s got your nipple pinched between his fingers, he leans in, and licks and sucks your nub and you see white.

The wail he pulls from you is sinful, and he knows you’re almost at the end of your tether. “One more, honey, let me do the other one, ok?” he’s getting antsy, he has to have you, has to feel you pulse around him soon or he might die.

He leans in to your other breast and gives it the same treatment, licking and sucking at the extra-sensitive bud pinched in his fingers. You’re moans and sighs are becoming sobs, and you can’t hold on much longer, not with the way even the smallest grind of your hips makes you want to gush and cum all over him.

“Fuck, honey, you did so well, thank you, thank you, (Y/N),” he’s gripping your hips and trying to lift you off him.

“No! No, don’t you dare, don’t you do it-“ you start, eyes wild at him.

“Shh, honey, no, no, let me just,” he reaches down to try and slide his boxers down, trying to free his cock, and grunts, “remember when I,” he grunts again , adjusting, “remember when I said it’ll be good? I’m gonna,” he shifts again, sighing when his cock is finally free, the waistband of his boxers resting below his balls, “make it good for you, honey.” He grips his cock and runs the swollen red head up and down your folds, catching on your clit, and you both moan.

“Don’t tease me anymore, baby, I can’t take it, I can’t,” you’re pleading with him, your pupils blown wide and your eyes glazed over and your breath coming in short shallow pants.

“I know, honey, me too, me too—hold on to me.” You clutch his shoulders to steady yourself, and raise yourself up a little, knowing what he’s about to do. At the same time, Paterson grabs one of your hips, and with his other hand, grips the base of his cock, lining himself up with your slick hole.

Oh fuck, no, he thinks, he hasn’t prepared you at all for this. Fuck fuck fuck, he doesn’t want to hurt you. “Honey—wait, I didn’t-“

“I don’t care.” You’re reckless. You know what he means. He hasn’t fingered you with two fingers, or even one, but you know your body. You know you can take it, with how aroused you are, how hot and wet he’s gotten you.

Paterson protests. “Honey you don’t mean that, come on I don’t want to-“

“You said you were gonna be good for me, right? Did you say that, baby?” There’s an edge of irritation in your voice, but you can’t help it. You’re frustrated, and so on edge that you might cry if you don’t cum in the next five minutes.

Paterson opens his mouth to answer you, but he’s cut off when you drop yourself down onto his cock, sheathing him halfway in an instant.

“FUCK,” he cries out, at the same time as you purr, all husky and deep at him, “Then be _good_ for me, baby.”

“Shit, shit, you’re so fffucking tight, honey,” Paterson’s huffing his breaths now.

“Yeah I am, just for you baby, ss-split me open with your b-big cock.” Jesus, you were so gone.

Paterson bucks up into you at your filthy words, his throbbing cock almost all the way inside you now, and it triggers something in him. He grips your ass cheeks again and rocks you against him while he thrusts up into you, groaning and panting like an animal. The chair squeaks on the tiles.

“Yeahhh baby, mmhm, fuck me open and make me cum, Pat.”

He lets loose a long and low groan at your words, feeling them shoot straight through his belly to his rock hard cock. He loves you like this, you make his dick twitch when you talk to him like this.

He grabs your waist now, and hoists you up and down on him. Your beautiful breasts bounce in his face and the pleasure he feels is obscene, it should be illegal, your pussy, your tits, your body. And, spying something out of the corner of his eye that wasn’t cleared up after pancakes, he gets an idea to match. “I don’t think I ate enough, for breakfast,” he chokes out.

Your brow furrows, totally thrown for a loop. “Wha… what the fu-“ you can’t comprehend this, not right now.

“I didn’t eat enough,” he cuts you off. “I’m still hungry.” He’s gazing deep into your eyes now, searching for something.

You stammer, unsure what the fuck could possibly be going on now. “O-ok, honey, d-do you wanna s-stop?” You tried to quiet your moans and pants but talking normally was impossible while you fucked yourself on his dick. He _had_ to know this.

“Nno, don’t stop, honey, please, don’t stop,” he groans. He takes his hands off you and reaches over the table, grabbing a bottle of something. You don’t have time to make out the label as you bounce yourself on his cock, seeking your release. But then you feel it. You look down and then you see it.

Paterson tips a viscous amber liquid all over your breasts, and it trails over your flesh and your nipples in gooey, sticky, thick streams. It smells like-it was on the table for-

“Is that, fucking, m-maple syrup, baby?” This kinky mother _fucker_.

Paterson drops the bottle back down on the table without looking, careless, consumed by you, and grins a cheeky smile. “Mmmmhungry,” is all he groans before his mouth is on your breasts again, licking and sucking at your skin and your nipples and the ropes of sticky syrup, lapping it up.

You’re constantly moaning now, high pitched and desperate, unable to really comprehend all the sensations happening to you at once, but still needing more, just a little more, to get you over the edge.

You snake a hand down to your centre, you were ready to cum, so ready, you needed to, you had to give just a few little rubs to your clit.

Paterson sees your hand trailing down, and he moans some words into the flesh of your breasts, you can’t make them out, because you’re wailing, screaming and crying when Paterson very gently nibbles at your nipples and worries them with his teeth, holding your nipples in between his pearly whites and then flicking at them with the tip of his tongue.

It’s not even a few seconds before you’re coming, loud and hard and squeezing the life from Pat’s cock, your orgasm wracking you and making you tremble and shake in his lap. He feels you pulsing and tightening from the inside, and it triggers his own orgasm, and Paterson shoots rope after rope after rope of thick, hot cum deep inside you, “fffuuuuck, honey, yesss, fuck, (Y/N), yes,” he’s mindless as you keep rocking on him through both your orgasms.

When the throbbing and the pulsing subsides, you’re leaning in where his neck meets his shoulder, palms flat on his pecks, and you’re nestled up in his sweaty saltiness, catching your breath. Paterson’s hands have wrapped around your waist, holding you to him while he steadies his breathing in your hair.

You lean up to face him, and plant a long, deep kiss to his lips. He tastes like all the syrup he just licked off you, and he hums happily into your kiss. You pull away and lick your lips, and huff a small chuckle, “hm, sweet, baby.”

His next words are low, quiet and deep, and he brings his hands up and cradles your face in his big warm hands before he kisses you again, saying, “mmmy little peach, honey, you don’t know the half of it.”


End file.
